


Bad Things Happen to Good Characters

by liberallesbian37



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Caning, F/M, Forced to Watch, Hair matted with blood, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Sisterly Talks, bathing together, body image issues, made a slave, rape/non con, slave - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2020-09-23 18:40:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20344846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liberallesbian37/pseuds/liberallesbian37
Summary: A collection of stories originally written for Bad Things Happen Bingo. First published here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gotfanfics





	1. Hair matted with blood

**Author's Note:**

> Trope: Hair matted with blood
> 
> Fandom: Game of Thrones
> 
> Ship: Gendry/Arya
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of canon-typical violence

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” Arya snapped weakly. Her voice lacked any real bite.

“I know,” Gendry said, though he didn’t move from where he stood.

“Then why are you trying to take care of me?” she asked. If Sansa hadn’t just stitched up her forehead—and wouldn’t freak out if Arya pulled a stitch—she would have raised an eyebrow. Gendry huffed.

“Maybe I just want to. Is that so wrong? Besides, you told your sister I was staying, and that’s the only reason she left, remember?” he asked.

Arya tilted her head in consideration. She _had_ promised Sansa that Gendry would stay with her. The redhead hadn’t wanted to leave her sister alone, especially with a head wound, but Arya had reminded her that people needed her. With the master dead, Sansa was one of the best healers in Winterfell.

“Fine. But I don’t need it,” she insisted. Gendry rolled his eyes.

“As Mi’lady says,” he joked, earning a sharp glare from Arya. He looked away as she started tearing her clothes off.

“You don’t have to look away, you know. You’ve already seen me,” she pointed out.

“Just get in the tub before the water goes cold,” he said shortly, still pointedly avoiding looking at her. Arya couldn’t help the moan that escaped her lips as she lowered herself into the water. Her entire body ached, and the heat was soothing down to her bones.

“Since you’re here anyway, you might as well make yourself useful. Could you help me wash my hair?” she asked. Gendry’s eyes widened.

“Your hair? Help you wash it?”he practically squeaked. Arya rolled her eyes, wincing when it pulled her stitches. If she pulled them… Sansa would have her head.

“Yes, my hair. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m covered in blood, and I can’t move my arm back there right now,” she explained, pointing to the long gash on her arm.

“Of course! Of course I’ll wash your hair,” he said, practically tripping over his feet to kneel behind Arya.

“Here, Sansa left this fancy soap. Might as well make her happy,” Arya grumbled. She didn’t see why such a scarce supply should be wasted on her, but it was an easy way to please her sister. She felt Gendry’s hands hovering above her head.

“You’re going to have to touch me,” she pointed out. She didn’t know why Gendry was being so shy. He’d touched more than her hair only last night.

“Is this all your blood?” he asked, voice strangled. Up close, he could see that her hair was completely matted with blood.

“’Course not,” she answered. Gendry reached out and touched the back of her head. Arya grunted, and he quickly removed his hand.

“I didn’t say that none of it was mine!” she complained.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he apologized. Arya rolled her eyes again.

“Just wash my hair, please,” she said, sounding tired.

“As Mi’lady commands,” Gendry joked, using the cup Sansa had left to pour water over Arya’s head. He watched in fascination and horror as the water ran red.

“Use your fingers,” Arya ordered. Gendry complied, carefully running his fingers through Arya’s hair. It was so matted with blood that his fingers got stuck, and she winced.

“For defeating death, you’re kind of a baby,” Gendry commented.

“Sansa would have been gentler,” Arya grumbled. At least, the Sansa she knew today would have been gentle. She’d hardly felt the needle earlier. The Sansa she remembered from childhood would have tugged out the knots without regard for how much it hurt.

“I guess you should have asked her then,” Gendry retorted. Arya was silent for so long Gendry thought his comment had been ignored. He was rubbing soap into her hair when she finally responded.

“I didn’t want Sansa. I wanted you,” she said quietly. Gendry’s hands stilled. It was the most emotion Arya had expressed verbally.

“There you go,” he said, his voice thick. “No more blood in your hair.”

Arya turned her body to face him.

“Thank you,” she said softly, leaning in to kiss him. He kissed her back, one hand lifting to cup her cheek.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked nervously. Arya frowned.

“You don’t need to share my dirty water. I can call for a fresh bath for you,” she offered. Gendry shrugged. He’d never been in a position to have his own hot, clean baths, and in most situations he’d kill for this opportunity. Right now, though, he wanted nothing more than to join Arya.

“I’d rather be with you,” he said nervously. Arya smiled almost shyly.

“Get in then.”


	2. Rape/non-con

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: Rape/non-con  
Ship: Discussion of Gendry/Arya  
Characters: Arya and Sansa  
Warnings: Discussion of rape  
Notes: Continuation of Fic #1

“So, you and the smith?” Sansa asked with a smile in her voice. Her fingers prodded gently at Arya’s head, checking on the swelling. She was pleased to find that it had gone down.

“His name is Gendry,” Arya corrected.

“Gendry,” Sansa repeated. “How did you two meet?”

“We met when I was fleeing King’s Landing. He-we protected each other,” Arya said. She had wondered how long it would take Sansa to question her about Gendry. She’d been too distracted the previous night to ask why her sister was allowing a random smith to look after her. Now, though, she was full of questions, and Arya didn’t know how many she wanted to answer.

“I’m glad you had someone looking out for you,” Sansa said softly, and Arya could hear the regret in her voice.

“The Dragon Queen can’t marry me off now. I’m not a maiden,” Arya blurted out. She instantly regretted sharing that information. Why, why, _why _had she just told Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, that she’d bedded a lowborn bastard? What if Sansa tried to have Gendry thrown out of Winterfell?

“I see,” Sansa said in a tight voice. Arya snuck a look at her sister’s face and found only the mask that Sansa so often wore.

“Are you angry?” she asked, testing the water. The sister she knew from before would be horrified, and she wouldn’t have hidden it.

“Yes, but not for the reasons you think,” Sansa answered. Arya cocked her head to the side, confused.

“What do you mean?” she asked. Sansa sighed and put her hands in her lap.

“Arya, I could sit here and lecture you about the importance of being a lady and saving your maidenhead for your husband, but we both know you wouldn’t listen.”

Arya snorted.

“—And I wouldn’t want you to, besides,” Sansa finished. Arya frowned. Her sister had always wanted her to act like a lady, do the ‘correct’ things, and live properly.

“You wouldn’t?” she asked curiously. Sansa sighed again, and seemed much older than her twenty years.

“I acted like a lady,” Sansa said quietly, not meeting Arya’s eyes. “I always did everything that was expected of me. And where did it land me? One marriage that was left unconsummated, and a second marriage where I was brutalized every night.”

Arya swallowed thickly, unsure of what to say. Sansa didn’t talk about her marriage to the Bolton bastard—ever. She’d known it had been bad, but she hadn’t known any details. Now she realized that she wasn’t sure she _wanted_ to know any details.

“So…why are you angry?” Arya asked, realizing Sansa was probably waiting for her to say something. Sansa’s eyes flashed, and if Arya had been anyone else she would have been scared.

“I’m angry that you think I would ever let the Dragon Queen—or Jon or anyone else for that matter—marry you off without your consent. I’m angry that you think your lack of being a maiden is the only thing keeping you safe,” she said fiercely. Arya’s mouth fell open. She had assumed that, after the fighting was over, she would be used as a pawn, sold to the most advantageous lord possible. To her horror, she realized that she’d expected Sansa to be the first one pushing for her marriage, though she had expected the Dragon Queen would be the one trying to decide what lord she would marry. It wouldn’t have worked, of course, but she had expected them to try.

“Arya?” Sansa pulled Arya from her thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“This… This was the first time, right? No one else ever…” she trailed off, but Arya knew what she was saying. _No one ever forced you? _

“Yes, it was the first,” she confirmed. She knew it was partly luck. If Yoren hadn’t snuck her out of the city… If anyone besides Gendry had recognized she was a girl… She would have been raped at Harrenhal for sure, and she wouldn’t have been able to stop it.

“Was it… was it good? Are you…happy?” Sansa asked shyly, a small blush creeping up her face. Arya felt an overwhelming urge to hug her sister. So she did. Sansa let out a small squeak of surprise, but wrapped her arms around Arya.

“Yes. It was and I am,” she said quietly.

“Good,” Sansa replied, and Arya knew she was smiling.

“Sansa? Can I asked you something?” Arya asked. Sansa nodded, not moving from the embrace.

“Did-did Clegane ever… touch you?” she asked. Now Sansa did pull back, though she grasped Arya’s hands tightly.

“No, never. In fact, he saved me once. Joffrey had incited a riot. If Clegane hadn’t found me when he did… Well, there was a group of men, and they all wanted turns,” she said matter of fact-ly. Arya’s heart clenched. Though the Hound had told her as much, hearing it from him and having it confirmed by her sister were two completely different things.

“Sansa?” Arya asked again.

“Yes, Arya,” Sansa replied patiently. She knew deep conversations were not Arya’s strong suit.

“They’re all dead, right? The men who hurt you? Who raped you?” Arya asked. Sansa smiled and nodded.

“Yes. The man who raped me is dead. I let Ramsay be eaten by his own hounds. And the man responsible for my marriage is also dead. Executed by you,” she said, squeezing Arya’s hand. Arya smiled sadly.

“Littlefinger. I wish I’d given him a painful death,” she muttered. Sansa shrugged.

“Dead is dead,” she said simply. Arya looked at her thoughtfully. It occurred to her for the first time that, while it would be expected of her, Sansa may not wish to marry again.

“I won’t let them marry you off either. Not unless you want it,” Arya vowed. Sansa smiled widely.

“There’s no one in the world I would trust more to keep me from being forced into a marriage,” she said. Arya returned the smile.

“Then you should look in a mirror. I don’t know if anyone’s told you this, but you’ve become rather fierce, Sansa Stark,” she said. Though her words were teasing, her tone was completely serious.

“I’m glad you’re happy, Arya,” Sansa said softly. Arya thought of Gendry, of their night together, of the bath they’d shared, and she thought how unfair it was that Sansa hadn’t had that. Surely her beautiful sister deserved love more than anyone else in the world.

“You can be happy too,” she said. Sansa gave her a small smile.

“We’ll see.”


	3. Forced to watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: Forced to watch  
Characters: Sansa and Arya  
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, attempted sexual assault

Sansa knew the moment the guards collected her from her chambers that something bad had happened. What this could be, she wasn’t sure. Her father was dead, her sister was missing, her brother was at war… Anything could have happened. When they led her into the throne room, her eyes fell on the figure in front of Joffrey, and her heart sank. Stripped naked, ankles shackled, and wrists bound behind her back, was Arya. Her hair had been badly chopped off, but it was unmistakably Arya.

“Sansa!” Joffrey yelled. “So nice of you to join us. Look who was found trying to escape the city.”

“Your grace—” Sansa started, but was interrupted.

“I should have her killed for treason,” Joffrey said. Sansa’s eyes widened. She couldn’t lose another person.

“T-treason, your grace? For what?” she asked. She wished Arya would look at her, meet her eyes, but she was staring resolutely at the floor.

“For trying to escape!” Joffrey yelled. Sansa fell to her knees and began to beg.

“Please, your grace, my sister is stupid and she was frightened. She’s hardly more than a child. She meant no treason,” Sansa promised. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Arya’s head snap up, and she prayed her sister didn’t say anything. One misstep from either one of them and Arya’s head would be on a spike next to their father’s. _Don’t argue. Not now. Please, please don’t argue._

“Your grace, perhaps Lady Sansa is right. The girl does seem rather stupid,” Cersei commented.

“So you all would have me allow this little wolf bitch to live?” Joffrey asked. Tears welled up in Sansa’s eyes. She couldn’t lose her sister. She couldn’t.

“Please your grace. I’ll do anything, please,” she begged. Joffrey considered.

“Very well. She will be allowed to live. But she will be punished. And you, Sansa, will watch,” he ordered, gesturing to an empty chair. Wooden legs carried Sansa to the chair. Finally, she was able to see Arya face on. While her sister’s face was usually an open book, right now Sansa couldn’t read her expression. Was she angry? Scared?

“Trant! Teach her a lesson. Make sure she doesn’t try to run away again,” Joffrey said. Meryn Trant stepped forward. He was holding a wooden sword in his hand. Sansa saw fury flash in Arya’s eyes and realized Trant was holding her training sword.

“Stand up,” he ordered. Arya didn’t move. _Do what he says. Please don’t make this worse._ Sansa’s heart tightened as Trant kicked Arya to the ground, then kicked her again in the ribs.

“I told you to stand up!” he yelled. For a second, Sansa was afraid Arya would refuse. But then, she rose on shaky legs.

With more force than necessary, Trant raised the wooden sword and brought it down on Arya’s back. She howled and fell back to the ground. Sansa knew that being beaten with her own training sword would be a nasty wound to Arya’s pride. Unfortunately, that would not be the only wound her sister received. Again and again, Trant raised the sword, bringing blow upon blow to Arya’s body.

Tears streamed down Sansa’s face. She and Arya argued more often than they got along, but this was her sister. She loved her, and she was supposed to protect her. Instead, she was sitting here watching as a monster hurt her. _You are protecting her. You’re keeping her alive._

Arya was sobbing on the ground as Trant continued to strike her bare skin. Horrid red welts were rising, and Sansa could see blood in several places. The beating seemed to go on forever, and just as Sansa began to think it couldn’t get worse, it did. Trant kicked Arya onto her back and knelt down on top of her. He forced her legs apart and positioned the wooded sword. Arya began to kick and scream wildly as she realized what he intended to do.

“No!” Sansa yelled, her voice barely audible over Arya’s terrified shrieks.

“That’s enough!” Cersei yelled, stunning Sansa and Arya both.

“I don’t take orders from you,” Trant spat out, inching the sword closer to Arya’s body.

“That will be enough for today, Ser Meryn. Let this be a warning as to what will happen if she misbehaves,” Joffrey threatened. Trant looked disappointed, but he moved away from Arya. The brunette curled into a small ball, sobbing.

“Clegane, escort the Stark girls to Lady Sansa’s chambers,” Cersei ordered. The knight nodded wordlessly and stepped toward Arya, but Sansa was faster.

“Don’t touch her!” she hissed. Sansa ignored her, took off his cloak, and draped it over Arya. The younger girl had yet to speak.

“Can you walk?” he asked gruffly. Arya nodded, but looked at Sansa for support. The redhead let Arya grab her arm and lean heavily against her.

It was a slow walk back to Sansa’s chambers, and more than once the Hound tried to simply pickup the small Stark, but Sansa wouldn’t let him. Finally, they made it.

“I’ll get the cloak later,” he muttered, locking them inside Sansa’s chambers.

The second they were alone, Arya began sobbing again. She collapsed in her sister’s arms.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I should have stopped him, I should have protected you,” Sansa cried, hugging Arya tightly. Arya shook her head.

“You did protect me. You saved me. Joffrey was going to kill me and you saved me. And then… Trant was going to…” She couldn’t even say the words. Sansa kissed the top of her head.

“Shh. It’s over, it’s over,” she whispered. “You’re safe now.”

It was a lie, and they both knew it. They were hostages in the hands of the people who had murdered their father.


	4. Made a slave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: Made a slave  
Ship: non-con Jon/Daenerys   
Characters: Jon Snow, Daenerys, Sansa, Arya  
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, sexual violence

“Blood of my blood! I have called everyone before me today to learn an important lesson! We are working together to create a better world, but there are those who would stop us! There are those who want to continue to live in their old world, who seek to destroy us and take the throne for their own purposes! And today, I am here to show you what happens to those who deceive me!” Daenerys Targaryen yelled. She snapped her fingers and three Unsullied guards stepped to the side, revealing a person.

Jon Snow was kneeling on the step. He was completely naked, save for a black collar that was around his neck, attached to a leash that Daenerys held. His hands were tied behind his back, and she had stuffed a crudely made butt plug into his ass.

“Jon Snow pretended to be my lover! He pretended to support me! The entire time, he was plotting with his sisters and brother to overthrow my power!” she yelled, causing the crowd to start screaming at Jon.

“He tricked me into supporting the North in their war against the Undead, at a great personal loss to me, as well as my loyal supporters! He has committed treason, time and time again!”

“Burn him!” someone yelled from the crowd. Jon tensed. He had known his aunt had brought him here to die. Everyone knew Daenerys Targaryen burned her enemies. Hearing the words spoken, though, still sent dread through his body.

“This man attempted to assassinate your queen!” Daenerys yelled. At these words, someone from the crowd flung feces at Jon. He was looking down at the ground, but looked up when he felt something hit his head. More feces was thrown, hitting him square in the face. He gagged, coughing as the foul stench assaulted his senses.

“However… He is my kin. And I am loathe to kill my last remaining kin, even if he is a traitor. Apparently the threat of death is not enough to keep my enemies in line. But perhaps the threat of death to a loved one will. Spread the word! If any of the Starks attempt to act against me, Jon Snow shall be executed! Furthermore, if they refuse to bend the knee, he will be punished! From this day forward, Jon Snow will be my personal slave!” she yelled, and the crowd went wild.

Jon felt tears drawing in the corners of his eyes as the crowd assaulted him with feces, rotten fruit, and even rocks. The rocks were painful, but the humiliation was worse. Less than a year ago, he had been King of the North. Now he was nothing more than a slave to a Mad Queen. Not just any mad queen, his own aunt. His former lover.

He was pulled from his thoughts as he was yanked away by the leash. He stumbled, and tried to stand.

“You will crawl,” the guard said. Jon’s cheeks flushed red.

“But my hands are tied,” Jon protested. The guard cracked a wooden club across Jon’s back and he groaned in pain.

“You will crawl,” he repeated. Shuffling on his knees, Jon made the slow trip to Daenerys’ chambers. She was waiting inside, sitting on the bed.

“Thank you,” she said to the guard, who nodded and left.

“Come here,” she ordered Jon. His knees were bleeding by this point, but he shuffled over until his was in front of her. She spread her legs, and Jon saw she wore no smallclothes.

“Lick my pussy,” she ordered. Jon closed his eyes and did as she told him, but his heart wasn’t in it. Unfortunately, they had been together enough times for her to know he wasn’t trying. She yanked the leash, snapping back his head. Her hand flew out and smacked him across the face.

“Like you mean it,” she growled. Jon held in a sigh, and went to work. He must have done a convincing job, as Daenerys didn’t complain again. Before long, she was moaning in pleasure.

“I do hope your siblings don’t cause any trouble. I would hate to lose my new pleasure slave,” she mused. Jon’s mouth formed a hard line, but he said nothing.

“From this moment on, you don’t do anything without my permission. You want to eat, drink, piss, shit, sleep, whatever—you ask permission. Fail to do so, and you will be punished. If I deny you, and you do it anyway, you will be doubly punished. Do I make myself clear?” she asked. Jon nodded.

“Good. You will not walk. You will crawl at all times. When I have determined that you deserve the use of your hands, you may crawl on all fours. Until then, you’re on your knees. You will not speak to anyone without my permission. You will not speak _at all_ without my permission. If you cannot remember this, I will gag you. Understood?”

Jon nodded again.

“Good. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow you will be punished publically. People are calling for your head—I have to give them some blood,” she said almost cheerfully as she led him to a corner. The floor was bare, but he curled up without a word.

Never in his life did Jon think he would be wishing to be burned alive by a dragon.

***

“Sansa, we have to do something!” Arya yelled, willing herself not to cry. Sansa put down the quill she was holding.

“You think I don’t know that? Of course we have to do something! But we have to be smart, or we’ll only get ourselves and Jon killed!” she yelled back. The tears Arya had been holding back began to fall.

“You didn’t see him. He looked so defeated,” Arya whispered. Sansa moved across the table so she was next to her sister. She carefully took her hand, and when Arya didn’t move away, she wrapped her in a hug.

“I’m so sorry you had to see that,” Sansa said softly.

“I-it was horrible! She had a collar on him, and people were throwing things at him, she called him _her slave_!” she cried.

“We’re going to get him out of there, Arya. I promise,” Sansa said. Arya pulled away, wiping at her face.

“Just let me kill her! I can sneak in using a different face,” she said. Sansa shook her head.

“No. No way. Absolutely not!” Sansa protested. Arya glared at her.

“So you want to let Jon rot?” she asked.

“Of course not! But I’m not going to risk losing you too!” she snapped. Arya’s face softened.

“Sansa, I’ll come back. I’ll come back, and I’ll have Jon with me. We have to do this. To save him,” she pleaded. Sansa closed her eyes.

“Okay.”


	5. Caning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: caning  
Characters: Arya Stark

Arya couldn’t contain her howl of pain when the cane whistled through the air and landed on her bare ass. It was part of her punishment for disobeying orders and killing Meryn Trant. Once Jaqen had taken her sight, it had been all too easy for him to attach her wrists and ankles to chains that left her strung up in an X shape. And while she’d been able to hide any signs of pain while Trant had beaten her, she couldn’t do so now.

“A girl will count or a man will start over,” Jaqen reminded her, striking her again.

“Fifty five,” Arya whimpered. She could felt like her ass was on fire, and she could tell blood was beginning to spill. Perhaps she was lucky he was only striking her backside, though. He’d taken all of her clothes, and she was completely exposed in the middle of the room.

“Fifty six, fifty seven,” she cried out as he struck her in quick succession. She’d never been beaten like this before, and the pain was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She’d been spanked as a child—the North didn’t believe in whipping boys—and she’d even been strapped a couple of times, most notably when she’d put frog eggs in Sansa’s porridge and sheep dung in her bed. Those two pranks had each earned her twenty lashes, enough that even Sansa felt bad for her. But afterward, Ned had hugged her and Sansa had brought a salve from Maester Luwin. And when she’d been traveling with Yoren, he had walloped her with a big stick a couple of times for attacking Hot Pie, but when he was done, he’d given her herbs to chew to soothe the sting. This was a thousand times worse, and Arya doubted that any hugs, salves, or herbs would be given to her anytime soon.

“A girl did not behave as no one today,” Jaqen said, bringing down the cane.

“Fifty eight! A girl is sorry! Please, a girl is begging,” she pleaded, unsure of how much more she could take. The cane struck the crease where ass met thigh and Arya screamed.

“Fifty nine! Please no more!” she sobbed. She hated this, hated that she was crying, hated that she was begging. But the pain was unlike anything she had ever felt before, and she would have done anything to end it.

“How many strikes did a man say a girl had earned?” Jaqen asked, striking her again. Arya’s breath hitched, making her forget to count, and the cane met her thighs rapidly three times. Surely he hadn’t been serious when he’d announced her punishment. He couldn’t really mean to cane her 150 times, could he? She was barely a third of the way there and already she felt like she was dying.

“Sixty one, sixty two, sixty three! Please, a girl is sorry!” she sobbed.

“A man asked a girl a question,” Jaqen said, pausing his strikes.

“O-one hundred and fifty,” Arya answered. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, the cane landed on her thigh.

“Sixty four,” she counted.

“A man said 150, and 150 a girl will receive. Ask to stop again and a man will start over,” he threatened. The idea of starting over was enough to make Arya start crying anew. As it was, she continued to count the strikes. She screamed out when the cane landed right in the crack of her ass.

“N-ninety,” she sobbed. The cane stuck her there again another ten times before Jaqen moved on. She wondered if the Waif was watching this, enjoying herself. She thought again of when she’d been punished for her stupid pranks. Since Sansa was the one she had wronged, Ned brought her into the room to watch Arya’s punishment. Sansa, however, had not enjoyed watching it. She’d been smug at first, but by the end she was nearly in tears. Arya would let her sister apply a salve to her stinging backside, and promise to be nicer to her. The peace never lasted very long, but it was nice for a while. She somehow didn’t imagine a similar situation would happen with the Waif. More likely, the older girl was watching with glee in her eyes. She probably wished she could be the one delivering the cruel punishment.

It felt like an eternity before the cane hit her for the 150th time. She could feel blood dripping from her ass, from her thighs, running down her legs. The chains holding her were released, and she fell to the floor. She felt a bundle of clothes hit her.

“Find a place to sleep. A girl can beg for her supper if she wants to eat. A girl will not return here until she is ready to be no one,” Jaqen said harshly. A sob tore through Arya’s throat. She was alone, blind, and in more pain than she would have thought possible.

As Arya fumbled around in her personal darkness to dress herself, she wondered if it had been worth it. If she had known what her fate would be, would she have done it? Was killing Meryn Trant worth it? He had killed her dancing instructor, Syrio Forel. According to Sandor Clegane, he had stripped and beaten Sansa in open court. She knew the answer in her heart. It had been worth it. She would have taken 500 strikes with the cane if it meant she got to kill Trant.

Jaqen was right. Arya Stark was not yet a Faceless Man. Perhaps she never would be, either, but she would have to pretend. She had to earn her sight back, and then she could leave. She could return to Westeros, finish her list, and find what remained of her family. But first she had to become No One.


	6. Body Image Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: Body image issues
> 
> Characters: Arya-centric, Arya/Gendry
> 
> Warnings: Threat of rape is alluded to, but does not take place.

Age 5

“I’ll be the princess!” Sansa announced. “Robb will be the knight and Jeyne will be my handmaiden.”

“I wanna be a knight too!” Arya exclaimed. Sansa laughed at her sister.

“You can’t be a knight,” she told her. Arya made a face.

“But being a princess is boring!” she whined. Now Jenye laughed.

“You can’t be a princess either, Arya Horseface. Sansa is the princess because she’s the prettiest. You’re not pretty enough to be a princess. You could be the troll, though,” she suggested.

“Jeyne!” Sansa exclaimed, pretending to be scandalized even as she laughed.

“I don’t want to play your stupid game anyway,” Arya said, stomping off before anyone could see her tears.

She put frog eggs in Sansa’s porridge the next morning, and never tried to play Princesses and Knights again.

Age 6

“Sansa, aren’t you the prettiest thing anyone has ever seen!” Aunt Lysa gushed. Rickon had been born a month ago, and Lysa was visiting for the first time since before Sansa had been born.

“She looks just like you, Catelyn,” she said. Catelyn beamed. Then Lysa saw Arya and her face fell.

“Oh. Oh dear. She’s all Stark, that one is,” Lysa said with an air of disdain. Arya tried not to flush with anger and embarrassment.

“She takes after her father,” Catelyn agreed. Why didn’t her mother defend her? Catelyn loved Ned, and Arya had even heard her express disappointment that Jon, a bastard, took after his father while Robb, his trueborn son, didn’t. Arya didn’t much understand the difference between bastards and trueborns, but clearly looking like a Stark could be a good thing!

As soon as she could, Arya skulked off and avoided her aunt as much as she could.

Age 7

“Arya Stark, sit down at once!” Septa Mordane ordered. Arya stuck her tongue out. She hated needlepoint, hated accidentally pricking her fingers, hated it all. She wanted to be outside with Robb, Jon, and Theon. _They_ got to practice fun things, like archery and sword fighting. Right now, in fact, Robb and Jon were engaged in what appeared to be a tense battle with wooden swords.

“I want to see who wins!” she argued, still looking out the window. Septa Mordane pinched Arya’s ear and dragged her back to her chair by the fireplace. Arya yelped.

“Why can’t you be more like your sister?” she asked, exasperated. Arya swore Sansa looked positively gleeful.

“Maybe Sansa should be more like me,” Arya said under her breath. The Septa continued, either ignoring or not hearing her words.

“You’re never going to make a good match based on your looks. You’re going to need to be good all the things a wife is meant to be good at,” she said. Arya glared at her.

“I’m never getting married!” she vowed.

Age 9

“I’m not a boy!” Arya exclaimed angrily. She’d been told her entire life that she wasn’t a pretty girl, so she didn’t know why being called a boy upset her so much.

“Hush, child. You’re a boy now, at least if you want a chance of making it out of this city. Gold cloaks will be looking for a little girl, not a boy,” Yoren said. Arya considered.

It was true, she had no doubt everyone in the city would be looking for her. Knowing Cersei, the woman would probably put a price on her head, so even the common folk would be looking for her. They might not know exactly what Arya Stark looked like, but they would know to look for a girl. If she was a boy, maybe no one would look her way. If she was a boy, she could travel with the Night’s Watch recruits. If she was a boy, maybe she could make it back to Winterfell.

As Yoren chopped her hair off, she wished Sansa and Jeyne and Aunt Lysa and Septa Mordane could see her now. She’d be even uglier than Arya Horseface ever was.

Age 13

She was with Gendry and Hot Pie when it happened. She got her moon blood for the first time, and felt sick. Her survival depended on people thinking she’s a boy. She pulled Gendry aside and told him what had happened, trying not to sound panicked. He tore up an old shirt and gave the strips to her to line her small clothes. She flushed red, but took them, mumbling a quiet thanks.

Later that night, she overheard Hot Pie talking to Gendry by the fire.

“She really does look like a boy, doesn’t she?” Hot Pie asked. From her hiding spot behind a bush, Arya could see Gendry frown.

“What?”

“Well, I thought she was just really young. But I’m not stupid, I know what’s going on. She’s a woman already, but she still looks like a little boy, don’t you think? No one will ever guess she’s really a girl, what with her chest so flat.”

Gendry opened his mouth to respond, but Arya ran away before she could hear what he says. Her body had been criticized by people her entire life, but for some reason the idea of Gendry agreeing with Hot Pie made Arya want to cry.

Age 16

She was living in the House of Black and White when her body really began to look womanly. She’d lost her moon blood for a while when she was travelling with the Hound—near starvation would do that to a girl—but it had returned, along with new curves, when her meals became regular again.

She took to wrapping her breasts, flattening them as much as she could. She wasn’t a pretty girl, she knew that, but she wasn’t stupid either. Men didn’t always care whether or not a girl was pretty. Maybe if she hid her womanly features she could keep men away. She could always kill them, but it would be a lot easier if they just didn’t approach her in the first place.

Age 18

“Those other girls you slept with. Were they pretty?” Arya asked. Gendry shrugged.

“I suppose. Not as pretty as you, though,” he said. Arya scoffed.

“Liar,” she said.

“I’m not lying. Gods, Arya, you’re beautiful,” Gendry whispered. Arya froze.

“Get dressed,” she snapped. Picking up her shirt and pulling it over her head. Gendry frowned, confused.

“What’s wrong? What did I do?” he asked. She glared at him.

“I’m smart. I’m fast. I’m deadly. I’m good with a bow, and I can survive in the woods on my own. If you want to compliment me, say those things,” she said. Gendry’s frown deepened.

“You’re mad because I called you beautiful?” he asked.

“I’m mad that you’re lying to try to get me in bed! I’m not beautiful, and we both know. If you want to fuck someone beautiful, go find Sansa or Daenerys. Maybe you can seduce one of them with your proclamations of beauty,” she said bitingly. Gendry stepped forward and, when Arya didn’t back away, kissed her.

“I don’t want Sansa or Daenerys. I want _you._ Are they beautiful? Sure. But I meant what I said, they’re not as beautiful as you. And yes, you’re smart and you’re deadly and you’re absolutely bloody terrifying if I’m being honest. I didn’t say you’re beautiful because I’m trying to get you into bed. I’m saying it because I mean it,” he insisted. Arya stared at him, searching his eyes for a lie. She couldn’t find it.

“Fine. You don’t have to put your clothes back on,” she said. Gendry laughed and kissed her again.

She didn’t believe him. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, she’d heard it all her life. But for some reason, her stupid bull thought she was. And she wasn’t going to argue with him, not tonight.


	7. Tortured for Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: Tortured for information  
Characters: Theon

“Where is Robb Stark?” the hooded figure asked, circling around the cross Theon Greyjoy was tired to. Theon raised an eyebrow defiantly.

“That’s a good question. Seeing as you’ve kidnapped me—breaking guest right, I might add—it’s a question I’m afraid I can’t answer,” Theon answered smugly. He immediately regretted his tone when the mystery man jabbed him in the stomach with the end of his whip. His body tried to hunch over to protect his abdomen, but the bindings around his wrists and ankles made it impossible.

“You’re rather cocky for a man currently stripped naked and tied to a cross. I could do anything I want to you. No one would care. As far as everyone else is concerned, you’re dead,” he said, sounding gleeful.

Theon swallowed thickly. It didn’t matter if the man was lying to scare him; it was true no matter what. After the massacre that had occurred at the wedding, no one would even consider that he might be alive, body or no body. And even if someone did suspect he had survived, so what? There was no one to rescue him, no one who would be willing to ransom him—if the man was after money, which was seeming increasingly unlikely. Ned Stark was dead—damn the man and his honor, it would be the death of them all, it seemed. His own father had disowned him for siding with Robb. Robb… His mouth went dry at the thought of Robb. Gods, their last words had been spoken in anger. He must have spoken the name aloud, for the man in front of him perked up.

“Yes, Robb. Where is Robb?” he asked. Theon shook his head.

“I don’t know,” Theon answered truthfully. And he didn’t know. He’d been taking a piss when the slaughter went down. He hadn’t been there, hadn’t been with Robb during the most crucial moment of his life. Catelyn Stark had been butchered. All of Robb’s men. His wife. His unborn child. Yet for some reason, this man believed Robb had escaped. Theon didn’t know how it could be possible.

The man didn’t respond, but Theon felt something being attached to his foot. It felt like a metal boot of some sort, though he couldn’t imagine what its purpose was.

“I’m going to give you one more chance. Where is Robb Stark?” the man asked. Theon glared at him.

“I told you already, I don’t know! And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you!” he yelled. The man clucked in disapproval and began to crank something. Theon gasped as the pressure of the boot began to grow. It became tighter and tighter, making Theon squirm.

“Where is Robb Stark?” the man repeated. He had to be a Frey, Theon reasoned. After all, they were at the Twins. Or at least, they had been at the Twins right before he’d been knocked unconscious. How long had he been out cold? Long enough to move him? Surely the Freys had someone helping them. They weren’t smart enough to pull off something so large.

“I. Don’t. Know.” Theon said again.

“Wrong answer,” the man replied, turning the crank further. Theon groaned as a bolt began to turn from the bottom of the boot, and he realized what was going to happen. The more the man turned the crank, the more the bolt would be screwed upward. Eventually the skin on the sole of his foot, tough as it may be, wouldn’t be able to stop the bolt’s progress. And when that happened, Theon would spill all his secrets. Or he would, if he knew anything. Theon said a silent prayer to the Drowned God that he didn’t know where Robb was.

“Where’s Robb Stark?”

Theon didn’t bother answering. The man clearly wasn’t going to believe him. He might as well save his strength, instead of continuing to insist on his ignorance. The man turned the crank, and Theon screamed as the bolt was screwed into his foot.

“We can stop this,” the man said. “You can tell me what I want to know, and I’ll stop. You haven’t been permanently maimed yet. But in another moment, this bolt will meet the resistance of bone. But I won’t stop. I’ll keep going, and going, and going, until the bolt goes right through your bones. It’s up to you. Where is Robb Stark?”

“I bloody told you already, I don’t bloody know!” Theon yelled, forgetting his resolve to not answer. The man shrugged and turned the crank.

Theon screamed and screamed and screamed. Then everything went black.

**

When Theon came to, he was aware of a terrible pain in his foot. He couldn’t tell if the bolt was still there, but the boot certainly was.

“You’re awake,” a quiet voice said. Theon startled and looked around desperately in the dark. The voice was not the same as the hooded man, he didn’t think. This voice sounded too kind to be the same person who had hurt him so badly.

“Please, you have to help me,” Theon begged, his voice hoarse from screaming. A man hobbled into his view. He was dressed in servant’s clothes.

“Have some water,” he said, holding a cup to Theon’s lips. Theon drank greedily.

“Please, you have to get me out of here,” he said when he’d sucked the water down. The man shook his head.

“There is no way. This place is guarded heavily. You’d never be able to escape,” he said. Theon shook his head.

“No please, I can’t take any more. Do you know what they’re doing? They’re torturing me! Please, please, help me,” he begged. The man stepped closer and Theon noticed the piercing blue of his eyes.

“I know what they’re doing. They’ve done it to me before, a long time ago,” he said. Theon frowned.

“How did you make them stop?” he asked curiously. If he couldn’t be freed, maybe there was another way.

“I told them everything I knew. I sold out my own brother in exchange for my release from their torment,” he said. Theon was already shaking his head.

“I can’t. I can’t tell them,” he said. The man stepped even closer, close enough for Theon to smell the wine on his breath.

“It’s the only way. It’s the only way to stop the pain,” he said. Theon shook his head again, growing desperate for _someone_ to believe him.

“But I don’t know anything! Please, just help me get out of here,” he said. The servant stepped away.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you escape. You’d never be able to get away. Not with your foot maimed the way it is,” he said.

Theon’s blood ran cold and his breathing quickened.

“You’re the hooded man,” he whispered. The man grinned.

“Guilty. Now why don’t we try this again?”

He brought out another boot for Theon’s other foot.

Theon screamed.


	8. Sadistic Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: Sadistic Choice  
Characters: Arya, Sansa

Sansa didn’t know why she and Arya were being called to the throne room, or why Joffrey looked so angry when they walked in. She knew, at least, that her sister hadn’t done anything to warrant his anger. They’d been together all morning.

“Your grace,” she said softly, kneeling before him. She tugged on Arya’s hand, forcing her to do the same.

“Your brother is a traitor!” Joffrey yelled. Sansa nodded, keeping her eyes on the floor and silently begging Arya to stay quiet.

“I know, your grace. I pray he sees the truth every night,” Sansa lied. She could feel Arya stiffen next to her.

“Your prayers aren’t enough. It seems I need to send him another message. And this will have to be a _big_ message. You see, he’s taken my uncle hostage,” Joffrey said. Sansa’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. Jamie Lannister was known to be the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. If Robb had captured him… Maybe there was hope after all.

“So I’m going to give you a choice. Ser Trant is going to give one of you a whipping. But it’s up to you, Sansa, to choose who gets it. You can choose for your sister to receive twenty-five lashes, or you can take fifty lashes yourself. It’s up to you,” he said.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she didn’t have to make this choice. Why couldn’t he just punish them and be done with it? Why did he have to make them participate in their own torture?

“I’ll take it, Sansa,” Arya whispered, grabbing her sister’s hand. Sansa shook her head. She couldn’t do it. Even though the sentence was lighter, she couldn’t condemn her little sister to twenty-five lashes. She didn’t know how she was going to withstand fifty, but she would do it.

“I’ll do it,” Sansa said quietly. Arya squeezed her hand tightly, silently thanking her. Joffrey looked at the two girls in consideration.

“Trant? String up the wolf bitch for a whipping,” he ordered. Looking gleeful, Trant stalked over and started to grab Sansa by the arm.

“No, the other one,” Joffrey interrupted. Sansa’s jaw dropped and Arya sent her sister a worried look.

“No! You gave me a choice! I said I’d take it, don’t hurt her!” she exclaimed as Trant grabbed Arya instead. Joffrey laughed.

“I did give you a choice. I was hoping you would choose your sister, but alas. It seems my mother and grandfather don’t want you to be beaten bloody in open court. They have no such concern for your sister,” he said. Sansa had never wanted to hurt someone as much as she wanted to hurt Joffrey.

“Fifty lashes should suffice,” Joffrey said lazily. Trant grinned as he strung Arya up by the wrists. He cut her clothes off with his sword, even going as far as to remove her small clothes. Sansa flushed with anger at the sight.

The first lash of the whip made Arya flinch. The second made her cry out. The third drew blood. And so on, it continued. Soon, both sisters were sobbing. Sansa felt sick at the sight of her little sister’s back being laid open by the cruel whip, but there was nothing she could do. She feared that any attempt at interfering would only make it worse.

As the lashes continued to rain down on her, Arya thought about the fact that Sansa had offered to withstand this torture to protect her. It had all been a game to Joffrey, but Sansa had thought it was real. She’d believed she was volunteering herself for the larger punishment to keep Arya safe.

It was a cruel irony, Arya realized, that they hadn’t been close until they were in the lion’s den. If they’d had each other’s backs before, maybe none of this would have happened. She didn’t see how, but the thought kept her up at night all the same. Where before they hardly spoke a kind word to each other, now they spent nights curled up in a shared bed, each promising the other that the horror wouldn’t last forever.

She felt herself growing dizzy with blood loss, and she wondered how many lashes were left. It had been impossible for her to keep count, and she found herself wondering if Sansa was keeping track. Not that it would matter, Joffrey and Trant could go on forever and Sansa wouldn’t be able to stop them.

After what felt like hours, Sansa watched as Joffrey put up a hand to stop Trant.

“I’m a man of my word. I said fifty lashes, so the punishment is over. Make sure ravens are sent to Robb Stark letting him know what happens when he makes enemies out of the Lannisters,” he said.

Without waiting for an invitation, Sansa ran over to untie Arya. She draped the cloak she was wearing around her sister and helped her limp up to their shared chambers. Once inside, Arya collapsed onto the bed, still sobbing.

“I’m so sorry,” Sansa whispered, sitting down near Arya’s head. She stroked her sister’s sweat soaked hair, trying to comfort her.

“Wasn’t your fault,” Arya muttered, lifting up her head to lay it in Sansa’s lap. They both knew Arya wouldn’t be allowed to see the maester, nor would she be allowed milk of the poppy or anything similar to numb the pain.

“I’ll need to clean you up,” Sansa said softly. Arya nodded.

“I know. But not yet, please,” she replied. Sansa agreed and reached for Arya’s hand. She swallowed back bile at the sight of Arya’s wrists, which had been rubbed raw by the ropes in her attempts to get away from the biting whip.

“Robb captured the most prized Lannister. That gives him a powerful bargaining chip. He’s going to get us out of here,” Sansa whispered, leaning down so her mouth was practically touching Arya’s ear. Arya didn’t respond. She had thought Robb would have them freed by now. She thought the moment Father had been arrested, Robb would be on his way to get them released. Instead he’d declared war on the people holding his sisters captive, leaving them to be tortured on a whim.

“Let me clean your back before you fall asleep,” Sansa said, moving to get up. This time Arya didn’t protest. She hissed and winced as Sansa carefully wiped the blood away and poured some wine on the open wounds to clean them.

“Seven hells!” she cried. Sansa sat down again and let Arya put her head back in her lap.

“I want to give your back time to heal over, so I’m leaving it bare for now. Are you cold?” she asked. Arya shook her head, but nuzzled closer to Sansa.

“I’m tired,” she said. Sansa nodded.

“I know. Sleep. I’m right here,” she promised, knowing she herself wouldn’t be getting any sleep anytime soon.

Arya closed her eyes, letting herself dream about Robb rescuing them. She had little hope, but maybe this latest spectacle would be enough to prompt him to action. In her heart, though, she knew Robb wouldn’t trade the Kingslayer for his sisters. Jaime Lannister was far too powerful a hostage to waste on little girls. Still, she could dream.


End file.
